Jadon
The words hung in the cold, park air.
"...it's just... a holiday, right?"
Talia's voice was small, thick with unshed tears, and braced for the blow. She was offering him an escape. A clean, mutual, and perfectly reasonable end to their "fated" collision.
And in that one, terrible second, Jadon saw his future. He saw himself walking away. He saw himself back in his glass-and-steel penthouse, watching her on a silent, 50-inch screen, a ghost in her machine, forever. A voyeur. A coward.
No.
He had built this entire, beautiful, intricate lie, not to lose her.
He turned, his whole body shifting on the bench, to face her. The "shy colleague" was gone, this was something new. Something... desperate.
"Is that," he said, his voice a low, rough rasp, "what you want it to be, Talia?"
She flinched, her gaze snapping from her knotted hands to his. Her amber eyes were wide, vulnerable. "I... I... I don't know what it can be. You're... here. I'm... there."
"So," he said, his voice flat, "if I... if I was... there... it wouldn't be 'just a holiday'?"
Her breath hitched. A tiny, wild, and terrified hope flared in her eyes. "You... what... what are you saying?"
This was it. The ultimate escalation. The final, foundational lie. He had to build the bridge.
"This 'leave'..." he started, his voice raw, and he was shocked to find how much of it was the truth. "It... it was supposed to be an escape. A... a way to get my head straight. I... I was... I was just drifting, Talia. I was a ghost."
He looked at her, his gaze so intense it was almost a physical touch. "And then... I... I collided with you. In the market. And... and you... you weren't... you weren't just an 'anomaly.' You weren't a 'holiday.'"
He took a shaky breath. "You... you're the 'true north' I've been looking for."
Talia's hands flew to her mouth, a small, muffled sound escaping.
"I... I can't go back, Tali," he whispered, the lie and the truth blurring into one, agonizing confession. "I can't go back to... to that life. To... to my family's... business. The one I was running from. You... this week... you... you've... you've changed me."
"Jadon..." she whispered, her eyes shining with tears.
"I'm not going back to my old job," he said, the lie now solidifying, taking shape. "When... when I go back to London... I... I'm done with them. I'm... I'm starting my own... thing. A... a small consultancy. Sourcing. The... the real thing. The 'story.' Like you."
He watched her face. He saw her, in real-time, absorb the implications. He wasn't Jadon of Manchester. He was Jadon, the newly-independent professional... who was moving back to London.
"So... you're... you're..."
"I'm going to be in London," he said, his voice firm. "And... I'm... I'm going to need... a... a guide. To... to the real London. Not... not the one I left."
She just stared at him, her mind, he could see, reeling. The "obstacle" wasn't an obstacle. Fate... bashert... it was real.
The silence stretched, electric. The tension, the "almost-kiss" from the dinner, the hand-brushes, the yearning... it was all here. It was unbearable.
"Talia," he whispered, his voice thick.
He leaned in.
He didn't lunge. He didn't take. He did... exactly what she was now hoping for.
He lifted his hand, the one that had only, so chastely, brushed her cheek. He laid it, gently, against the side of her face.
She didn't pull back. She didn't flinch. Her eyes, wide and luminous, were locked on his. She let out a small, shuddering breath... and leaned into his touch.
It was all the permission he needed.
He closed the gap.
The kiss was not the chaste, "gentleman" peck. It was not the fast, hard kiss he'd imagined.
It was... a confession.
The moment his lips met hers, a jolt, white-hot and violent, shot through his entire system. She was warm. She tasted of sweet tea and the cold, winter air. She was real.
She was stiff, for just a half-second, a gasp of pure shock frozen in her throat.
And then, with a low, desperate sound of her own, she... melted.
Her hands, which had been knotted in her lap, flew up, her fingers gripping the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer. She kissed him back, not with shyness, but with a raw, desperate, and starving hunger that matched his own.
This wasn't a "first kiss." This was a reunion. It was the collision in the market, the tension in the restaurant, the shared vulnerability in the café. It was every "fated" moment, every lie, and the one, single, truth... all colliding.
He deepened the kiss, his other arm coming around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He wasn't "Asher." He wasn't "shy Jadon." He was just... a man. A man who had found the only real thing in his entire, hollow life.
He was drowning in her.
He was the one who pulled back, his breath ragged, his forehead resting against hers. They were both trembling.
"It's not a holiday, Talia," he rasped, his eyes closed. "It's... it's not."
Talia couldn't speak. She just nodded, her hands still clutching his shirt, her face buried in his chest.
"I... I have to go tomorrow," she whispered, her voice muffled.
"I know," he said, his hand stroking her hair. "And... I... I'll be right behind you. I just... I need a... a week. To... to pack up. To... to handle things."
A lie. He needed a week to get back to London, to have Kael and Ari set up his new "Jadon" life. A new, modest, "consultancy" office. A new, normal "flat."
"Okay," she breathed, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were dark, dazed, and full of a blind, terrifying trust. "Okay. A week."
"A week," he promised.
The lie was now, officially, concrete. It was no longer a "Manchester Bubble."
It was a bridge. A beautiful, golden, and utterly treacherous bridge... and she had just, with that one, devastating kiss, agreed to cross it.